Acquaintance
by Kay55
Summary: Yet another Harley Quinn origin story, but with my own personal spin, of course! Joker as portrayed by Heath Ledger. For me, the darker the story, the better. Enjoy! Rated M for violence and mature content.
1. Chapter 1

"Why are we even providing him therapy now? Don't the other inmates get put in solitary confinement as punishment?" I hurry to keep up with the long strides of David Stone, the head of the Psychiatric Board, as we walk down the brightly lit corridors of Arkham Asylum.

"Well it's been a while since he's had a therapist. Plus, we feel that if he isn't in contact with other people he'll... act out. More so than he already does."  
I play it cool, to act as if my well being is my primary thought. "Well, that's comforting." I scoff, convincingly irate.

"He'll be in cuffs and shackles." Stone bargains.  
"Cuffs? Why not a straitjacket? Isn't he prone to self mutilation?"  
"Well… Yes, and not just self mutilation - but…" He runs a hand through his hair, noticeably anxious. "Okay, I didn't want to give you this in case it scared you off – but I think you should be aware of what you'd be getting yourself into." He pulls a blank DVD from somewhere in his coat and hands it to me. I eye it dubiously.

"Remind me again why I'm getting this bundle of joy as my new patient?"  
Stone's voice becomes earnest, his gray-green eyes meeting mine directly. "Harleen, your patients respect you. They _like_ you. They _listen _to you; consider you worth hearing. You've never had to turn over a patient to another therapist, that alone puts you above many of the therapists here."  
I nod, considering his words.

"We've stopped with video surveillance as we feel it gives him a…" he pauses, trying to find the right words. "Stage, so to speak. You know; an audience for him to perform to."

"So I'd be completely on my own in a room with him?" There's no hiding the incredulity in my voice.  
Guards had long been disallowed from the therapy rooms since the Joker often found them more fun to pry at than the professionally trained psychiatrists. So I knew that wouldn't be the case either.

"Well, yes. We no longer conduct his sessions in the office of the therapist. We found that it was making it too easy for him to delve into their personal lives."  
"Makes sense..." Is all I can provide as I try to absorb the offer I've just received.

"This is the, err, reason he needs a new therapist. Just... uh... just brace yourself, okay?" He motions towards the DVD he's just handed me.  
I sigh heavily. "I'll try."

Back at my office, I fire up my MacBook and insert the DVD. My hands are shaking with anticipation. The little window pops up immediately and I take a deep breath in attempt to slow my heart rate before clicking play.

The camera is situated between the two subjects, a few meters away. I recognize the brunette woman as Ainslee Callahan, the world-renowned psychiatrist who abruptly cut her career short after her first and only session with The Joker; the very session I was about to witness.

Across from the young doctor sits a pair of impossibly broad shoulders, dark coiled hair and a strong face laden with ridged scars. His posture is slouched and uninterested in his straight jacket, but he immediately props himself up when she places her pen to the notepad.

"Hello Joker, my name is Doctor Calla-"  
"You ever been raped, Doc? I'm sure in your youth you've put the thought into a few of the inmate's minds. You're a bit older now, a bit more _conservative,_ but I'm sure that you were a real tease once upon a time."  
I note that they are in what would appear to be Ainslee's office. Behind her desk are shelves full of family photos and personal trinkets, but The Joker's eyes do not leave his therapist. Instead, he is picking her apart by her appearance alone.

"No ring I see? Couldn't tie down a husby?" He asks the forty-something year old.  
"I don't see a ring on your finger either." I cringe as Ainslee's calm facade slips away.  
"Oho, you psychiatrists - always deflecting!"  
The brunette remains silent; a wise choice.  
"You people love talking about the past. _The past, the past, the past!_" He flails his head about haphazardly.

"So how about we go back to then, hmm? Do you wanna know what happened to my beloved?" He was nodding encouragingly, his tongue tracing his bottom lip rapidly. "Yeah?"  
Ainslee nods hesitantly.

"Okay, so, I had a wife who, like you, slept around a little too much for my liking." Ainslee's face portrays her contempt at his blatant assumption of her. "A lot too much, actually. She'd always come home with theses mysterious marks on her neck. And her lips would be slightly… slightly _swollen_, from kisses too hurried to be gentle."  
He was enjoying himself, fidgeting and twitching all the while.

"So, one day I decided we'd have a little chat about her suspected escapades. She didn't admit to it at first; not even when I showed her one of her boyfriend's hands. You know, the old _'they could be anyone's hands'_ line. But the confession was positively _gushing_ by the time I'd shown her his left eye. _That_ she recognized."

"Then it was all crying and _'I'm sorry'_ and _'I'll never do it again'_ yada yada. But I wanted to make sure I _really_ got the message across…"

Suddenly he was out of his straight jacket, flinging it to the floor before calmly jamming his shoulders back into their sockets. I find myself audibly gasping at the terrifying occurrence. Ainslee appears too shocked to retaliate. She sits motionless as the Joker pounces across the desk. He grasps the now-screaming therapist's head and – _kisses her?!_

Wait a minute… he isn't kissing her; he's _biting_ her – tearing the flesh beside her mouth from her face and ravaging her lips.

Her screams become gurgled, the sound of blood pooling in her mouth.

He grasps her face, thumb digging into the fresh wound on her cheek. She quietens, eyes the size of golf balls as he leers down at her.  
"Now, everybody who saw her knew that those lips of hers belonged to _me_."  
With a sharp 'crack', he slams her head against the tiled floor and stands.

Ainslee reels, semi-conscious and spluttering.

The Joker strolls up to the camera. His great size now becoming fully apparent as he bows before taking the camera in his hands and aiming it at his beaming face.  
"Hope you enjoyed the show, I'm here every Thursday!"

I pause the DVD to get a better look at his features.

Seeing him up close for the first time, I feel an instinctual clench; as if my insides are dissolving.

His eyes are an intense, deep brown, surrounded by a thin row of dark eyelashes. Eyelids that slant downwards slightly, giving him the illusion of perpetual sadness.  
I was immediately drawn to his lips - not the scars, or Ainslee's bright red blood that currently accompanied them - but the lips themselves. They are full and shapely and, well, beautiful.

I take in his strong jaw and straight nose - ever so slightly curved downwards towards the tip. He even has freckles, I think idly. How strange that a mass murderer would have freckles.

His skin is a light almond color, even though he hadn't been allowed to see the light of day in months his tan still put my pasty skin to shame.

I press play and watch the camera crash to the floor as security guards barge in. The footage abruptly ends there.

I lean back in my chair and let out the lungful of air I hadn't realized I'd been holding. My heart is still pounding as I try to process what I've just seen; what I'm about to unleash upon myself.

A part of me doubts my ability to control this case, as any normal person would after witnessing what I just had.  
The other part of me is equally sure that I was the only person for this job. I didn't loathe him automatically, like most of Gotham. I knew no one that he'd killed and that already made me a better candidate than many of the staff members at Arkham, who had lost loved ones by The Joker or his extended hand.

Besides, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't the patients that attracted me to my job.


	2. Chapter 2

I take a deep breath before entering the room, nodding to the guard in dismissal.

The room, which was once used for conferences before Arkham was renovated (thanks to Bruce Wayne's hefty donation at his last fundraiser), had been cleared of all the old desks, chairs and wall hangings. In their wake was a stainless steel desk and two steel chairs, all bolted to the polished concrete floor.

He is stretched across his chair in the brightly lit room. His lower back pressed against one arm of his seat, the backs of his thighs resting atop the other arm, hands wedged between his knees to provide some slack on the chain which ran down to his ankles. It was attached to an iron loop embedded in the floor.

His head swung back so that he was facing the ceiling, a look of sheer boredom on his face. I note that his orange Arkham jumpsuit has been opened and rolled down at the waist, revealing his white undershirt.  
The click of my shoes and the sound of me shuffling into my chair does not spark his interest in the least, his eyes still staring at the ceiling.

I clear my throat pointedly. His eyes roll onto me, followed by the rest of his head, rotating lazily to face mine. The mass of dark tendrils had been restrained by an elastic band on top of his head in a half-hearted bun.

"Hello, my name is Doctor Quinzel, I've been assigned your case and will be your therapist." _Good one, Harls, start with the blatantly obvious._

His eyes roam up and down my form, a look of disinterest ebbed onto his features.  
He says nothing, just bares his teeth in what I supposed was a curt smile that made every one of his scars become exaggerated tenfold. His head drops backwards again, eyes returning to the ceiling.

"Would you like to see your file?" I break the silence.  
His head tilts to the side enquiringly, eyes snapping back to mine.  
"Well _this_ is a first, what an interesting strategy you have. Letting me see what _you people_ really think of me." He drew out his sentence, elongating particular words for emphasis.

"You may be disappointed. There's really not much in your file. I mean, we don't even have your real name." I was tripping over my words, nervous; unsure if the 'file' (it was only one sheet of paper, not really worthy of the title 'file') would anger him or he'd simply find it amusing. Either way I was eager to see what his reaction would be.

"And it's not very refined… it's just various doctors' thoughts on paper, I mean - it's never even been edited. People just kept adding their viewpoints." Okay, I'm going to shut up now.

He smiles at me, enjoying my nervousness.

I jump slightly as he abruptly swings his body around to face me. In an attempt to mask my fright, I slide the file across the metal desk - only halfway across - causing him to stretch his chains to the limit so that he could reach the file with long, deft fingers.

He smirks at my caution.

I peer at my own scrappy copy, glancing up at his face periodically to gauge his reactions to certain points.

**Name:** Unknown  
- Patient provides different name to each staff member.  
- Exhibits strong attachment to names beginning with J.

**Age:** Estimated at 25-30 years

**Height:** 6'1

**Weight:** 178lbs

**Proposed diagnoses:**  
- Psychopath;  
- Sociopath;  
- Attention Deficit Disorder;  
- Antisocial personality disorder;

**Patient exhibits:**  
- Failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behaviors as indicated by repeatedly performing acts that are grounds for arrest;  
- Pathological lyring, as indicated by repeatedly deceit, use of aliases, or conning others for personal profit or pleasure;  
- A need for constant mental stimulation;  
- Irritability and aggressiveness, as indicated by repeated physical fights or assaults;  
- Reckless disregard for safety of self or others;  
- Consistent irresponsibility, as indicated by repeated failure to recognize the decadent nature of his actions;  
- Lack of empathy and remorse, as indicated by indifference to or rationalizing having hurt, mistreated, or stolen from another;  
- Superficial charm;  
- A grandiose sense of self-worth;  
- Pathological lying;  
- Tendency to manipulate others;  
- Failure to accept responsibility for his actions;  
- Social deviance, characterized by:

- Impulsive behavior;  
- Reclusive behavior;

- Engages in criminal behavior, such as:

- Murder;  
- Arson;  
- Armed robbery;  
- Kidnap;

- Gains pleasure from other's discomfort

His face gives nothing away but suddenly, he chuckles. "This… Uh, this is… Well, half the city could speculate this from what they saw on the news." He tosses the file back at me across the desk.  
"You read all of it already?" I'd only gotten to the fifth line by the time he'd finished.  
"I mean, what have you all been _doing_ these past few months? I hate to think you were wasting my time deliberately." He continues.

I wanted to rebut with the fact it was difficult to discern anything when he tells each psychiatrist something different - but his stare drove all intelligent speech out of my mind.

My own additional notes had been scrawled in the blank space beneath the printed case file, but this, I had not given to him.

_*'A grandiose sense of self-worth' - No, because his sense of what he can do - what he's worth - seems accurate  
*'Failure to accept responsibility for his or her actions' – He does claim responsibility, although, he seeks to evade any negative repercussions of his actions_

_- Has a flair for the theatrical. *Fascination with dangerous devices, exhibits signs of pyromania, with bouts of suicidal tendencies  
- Sadomasochist?  
- Psychotic, definitely.  
- Dissociative personality disorder  
- Manic depression?  
- Nihilism, and fixated narcissism. *Has frequently been shown to have no regard for human life, and treats the pain and suffering of others as personal sport  
- Self mutilation. *Gave himself significant facial scarring_

"So Harley, are you going to show me what you have written down?"  
"What makes you think I've written anything about you yet?"  
"I just have a sneaking suspicion you've done some sneaky homework on me already."

"Well I did see the tape of what you did to Ainslee." His expression remained blank. "Err Dr. Callahan?" Still blank. "Your only other female therapist?" His face lights up at the memory.  
"Ohhhhh _her_! Yes, yes, she was so much fun. How's she doing, by the way?" His face held utmost sincerity, though I knew he was only asking out of sick enthrallment, not compassion.

"She required several skin grafts and hasn't resumed work since." His mouth furrowed like a child withholding laughter in the classroom.  
"Oh dear." He managed after attempting to drop the smirk from his face. "Pass on my well wishes, won't you?"  
"Somehow I think you're the last person she'd want to hear from…" I mutter.  
"Oh why can't you people ever take a joke! Always so _serious_."  
I say nothing.

"Why won't you show me what you've added?"  
"I didn't say I wouldn't show you."  
He raises his eyebrows expectantly and turns his palm upwards.

I slide my edited copy of his file halfway across the desk. He chuckles again at my carefulness as he reaches forwards and grasps the folder.

Again, he reads it in a matter of seconds.

"Sadomasochistic? That's a big word for such a tiny person. Tell me Harley, how exactly does one _test_ for sadomasochism, hmm?" He arcs an eyebrow at me suggestively.  
"Oh I can think of a few ways." The words were out of my mouth before I even realized I was saying them aloud. Where is this new-found sense of bravery coming from?! A moment ago I was stuttering like an idiot.  
His eyes light up as I try to mentally arrest the blood that's about to rush to my cheeks.

"Do you think I'm a monster, Harley?" The Joker asks after a short period of silence.  
"I stopped believing in monsters a long time ago." I say, as way of answer.  
"Grew out of it, did you?" He pauses as I nod in response. "I believe in monsters." He remarks matter-of-factly.  
"Do you think you're a monster, Jack?" Finally, I'm starting to ask some decent questions.

"I think… We stopped checking for monsters under the bed when we realized they were inside of us." His eyes positively burn into mine. I have to look down at the desk just to break the gaze, break whatever force was leaving me unable to speak.  
"I see." I comment, not entirely sure if I really did. Was he was implying everyone becomes a monster? Or that he's been this way since he was a child?

"Would you call yourself a schemer, Harley?" He turns his head to the side and smiles. "You don't mind if I call you that, do you? Harley? It'sjust that Dr. Quinzel is so cold, and Harleen is so…" His nose wrinkles and he squints in disapproval, flicking his fingers as if looking for the right way to describe something too hideous for words.

"You may address me as Doctor Quinzel. _Unless_ you tell me your given name." A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.  
His entire body becomes animated. "Oho ho! Is that how you're gonna play?" I remain silent and stare at him with a composed smile plastered to my face, hiding my inner excitement.  
"The Joker is my given name." He finally states.  
"I mean the name your parents gave you."  
"Oh _that_ given name!" He gives a long sigh. "James Napier."  
"What?" He's never given a surname before!  
He starts spelling it out, letter by letter.

"James Napier?" I cut him off after the 'm'.  
"Yes? I think it's Polish or something…"  
"Why haven't you told any of your other doctors this?"  
"That it's Polish? Nobody really likes the Polish."  
"No – your last name?"  
"I don't like them much."  
"So, why did you tell me?"

"Isn't the answer blatantly obvious?"  
I just stare at him, still stunned at his name reveal. Well, that's if he's telling the truth.  
"Are you telling the truth, James?"

I try to look for any recognition at his name being used.  
"Jack is what they used to call me… I never really got how Jack was a nickname for James, but anyway." He replies casually.

Holy shit, I think he has actually told me his real name!

"So. You think I did this to myself?" He motions to the raised scar tissue, tilting his head from side to side so that the harsh light of the small room casts defining shadows among the ridges.  
"Did you?" I query in a small voice.  
"Hard to recall. Memory's such a _fickle_ thing, isn't it?"

"Is that your way of dodging the question?"  
"I don't think you're ready for that story yet, Harley." He comments quietly.  
I don't think I am, either.

I try a different question I'm equally interested in.

"Do you dislike your scars? Is the face painting a way of you covering them up?" My words run together in my excitement.  
"Why wouldn't I like them?" A beat. "Isn't it just the best punch line?" I wait for him to elaborate, my thumb tapping against the edge of the table impatiently.

"Mommy always told me: better to laugh than cry. You live with a frown, you die with a frown; you live with a smile, you die with a smile. And now I'm always smiling." He shrugs casually, grinning.

There is this sort of nervous energy about him. In the few seconds The Joker spoke he took the rubber band out of his hair, shook his hair out from around his shirt collar, put the rubber band on his wrist, took it off his wrist, put the rubber band on the desk, readjusted his cuffs, readjusted his collar, then tied his hair into a careless bun with the rubber band again.

"Tell me a bit about yourself, Harls." I blink at his request.  
"I'm not very interesting."  
"Oh I'm sure you're simply _fascinating_." I'm momentarily mesmerized by his fingers as they trace his lips.

"You know my hobbies," he motions to the list of criminal activities on his case file. "But what are yours, Doc?" He is smiling at my ogling of his mouth.  
I hesitate before answering; trying to pick a hobby of mine he can't ween much out of.  
"Well… I uh, was a champion gymnast. I actually got into Gotham State University on a gymnastics scholarship. Something about it showing discipline…" I shrug.  
"Then you must be rather limber?" I do a terrible job suppressing my smile.  
"I suppose I am."

"Well that must've helped you get a few A+s from your professors, eh?" He smirks.  
"I don't think I like what you're insinuating, Jack."  
"_I_ like what I'm insinuating."  
His intense stare puts me at a loss for words once again.

"So you're into being disciplined are you?"  
If I'd been drinking something I would have spat it out in surprise.  
"What?"  
"Didn't you say that's what gymnasts are all about?"  
"Oh, yeah. I guess we are."

"So why the interest in gymnastics?"  
"I never really had much of an interest; I was just good at it, so I did it." I lie.

"I see. Tell me Harls, do you think you're a good psychiatrist?"  
I pause, put off by his abrupt change in discussion; unsure of where he's going.  
"I- you'd have to ask my patients."

"Modest, are we? So, exactly how many people get released from Arkham?"  
"Well… Not many…"  
"How many a year, would you say?"  
I pause again. "Maybe one a year…"  
"If that?"  
"Yes, if that."

"Does it depress you to know that what you're doing serves no real purpose?"  
"I wouldn't say it serves no purpose."  
"Really? So your aim isn't to make people better?"  
"It is but… sometimes it isn't that simple."  
"Isn't it? Then tell me, what is it _exactly_ that you do?"

"I… Well, I… Make patients more… more…" I scramble to answer – to come up with something believable.  
"Manageable?"  
"Yes." He smiles maliciously and I hurry to correct myself "No, that sounds… I meant to say-"  
"That sounds about right to me." His words are shaped by his grin. "Ya see, _you_ people," He waggled a finger pointedly "When something doesn't fit you try to stamp it out, to quiet it down so that it doesn't turn any heads; doesn't _upset_ the order of things. Try to mould it into a 'better' shape." His hands flutter about with every sentence, accenting each word.

I stare at him candidly. "Are you done yet?"  
"I don't think you're a psychiatrist because you 'like helping people'." No, he's not done yet. I consider his notion for a minute.  
"You're right. I don't believe you can be helped. Yet here I am." He smiles at my affirmation.  
"Oooh now I'm really intrigued. Why the interest in interesting minds, eh? Got an _interesting_ mind yourself, have you?" His eyebrows raise enthusiastically.

"Every mind is interesting, Jack." I state with a smile.  
"Mmm yes, but some more so than others." He winks knowingly.

There is a knock at the door and soon after, a guard enters.  
"Just doing my rounds, Doctor Quinzel." He answers to my raised eyebrow. "Everything okay in here?"  
"Everything is fine," I squint at his name badge, "Greg."  
"Alrighty, when would you like us back to escort the patient back to his cell?"  
I glance at The Joker, who his calmly watching the interaction, hands folded in his lap.

"Actually, you can take him now. I think we're done for the day." I don't take my eyes off Jack whilst I speak and manage to catch the flicker of displeasure that flashes across his features. I don't think he appreciates it when sessions end at his therapist's leisure. I dare say he'd much prefer them to end on his terms…

None the less, his pleasant smile resumes as he watches me rise from my seat and walk past the three guards now ambling into the room.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Harley."  
The way my name rolls off his tongue sends shivers down my spine.

Author's Note:  
The line "We stopped checking for monsters under the bed when we realized they were inside of us" is not my own. It's something I found on the internet somewhere - I tried finding the original source but couldn't!


	3. Chapter 3

I barge my office door open and bound to my desk, rushing to find a pen.  
Quickly, I jot down all the topics we covered and scrawl his responses in quotation marks.  
I could kick myself; I thought I'd be exceptionally casual and not bother bringing a notepad into the session. (In all honesty, I didn't believe I'd get a drop of information out of him.)

Stone strides through the open doorway moments after I've scribbled down what I needed to.

"I seem to recall telling you to come straight to my office after your session with him." His voice is stern but I can tell he just wants to get this 'duty' out of the way so he can discuss my first session.

Stone is in his early fifties, but behaves much younger. He's always treated me like I was his kid sister, as unprofessional as it is.  
The only reason I got to prove myself as a psychiatrist when I first arrived was because he fed me the 'big cases' I'd needed.  
He'd believed in me from the start. So every success I had with a patient, felt as if it was his success as well; confirmation that he was right to select me all those years ago.

"I'm so sorry, I had to write things down before I forgo-"  
"Harleen, I had no idea if you were okay or not. You cut the session fifteen minutes short without contacting me!" He cuts me off, his forehead creased with worry.

"I know, I should've gotten one of the guards to contact you. It won't happen again." I give him my best apologetic mopey face. His features start to soften.

"Alright. Good. Anyway, how did it go?" He looks anxious but his excitement can't be masked.  
There's no suppressing the grin that erupts across my face.  
"That good?!"  
"That good."

His expression mirrors mine.

* * *

My hair is a frizzy mess from sprinting down the numerous corridors. I practically kick the door open, the poor guard having to close the door behind me with only a view of the back of my head as his dismissal.

I'm met with a murderous expression that almost stops my pulse.

Jack's coiled hair is free of its elastic confines this time, dark ringlets falling over his eyebrows. Absent-mindedly, I wonder if they'll make him have a haircut like they do the other inmates.

"You're late, Doc." Blunt.  
"I know, I know. My car's getting repaired and I let someone else have my cab."  
"And why would you do that?" Cold.  
"Well… They were going to a funeral." Which was actually true, who the hell catches a taxi to a funeral!  
"What a selfless act." Deadpan.

Oh God, he's really mad at me…  
I try to win him over with thoughtful concepts instead.  
"I don't think there's such thing as a selfless act… everything a person does is for their own gain. You do something nice for someone else to make yourself feel good."

"That's a very… pessimistic point of view, one might say, Harley. And very doc-like of you. Rational; thought out; cynical – oops I mean _clinical_." His callousness has eased a tiny bit.  
I smile, relieved. "Are you implying we doctors are cold hearted, Jack?"

"Never. Tell me, does it make you think less of people, believing them to be selfish creatures?"  
"No. It's human nature, they can't help it; it's instinct."  
"Killing is human nature, too, wouldn't you say?"  
I pause to consider. "What makes you say that?"  
"Well, to put it simply, we humans kill just about anything we can get our hands on."

"I don't really see it that w-"  
"Do you think killing is wrong?"  
"Yes, it-"  
"Ohhh but then there's those _special_ circumstances isn't there? Soldiers, are always a good example, they're absolutely _praised_ for what they do." His hands flail around in emphasis as he speaks.

"I don't think that's the same as-"  
"As what? Do you not think the _reason_ a person dies justifies their death? Don't you agree that blood shed is okay if it's for the greater cause?" This time he waited for my response.

"I… I suppose that's partially true, but-" _I'm_ supposed to be asking _him_ the questions!  
"Because that is exactly my method. What's a few hundred lives down the drain if it gets across a _message_? If it opens people's eyes to the _real _flaws in society?"

"What flaws?"  
He all but howled with laughter.  
"Oho Harley. You prove my point so… so _thoroughly_. The main flaw being ignorance; people 'round here seem to think they do no wrong." He nods animatedly, as if agreeing with himself.  
"They, they think that if they don't _know_ any better then it's not their fault. Human, uh, nature, as you so aptly put it." Jack inclines his head towards me briefly.

"I'm here to make sure they know." He folds his hands together and rests them on the metal desk, watching me.

"So… what you're saying is… you're trying to make this place… better?" I ask him, my eyes narrowed.  
"My version of it, yes."

"Do you think that people like you should be in power?" I ask after taking a moment to process what he's saying.  
"There are no people like me." True.  
"So you think YOU should be in power?"  
He folds his fingers and sits quietly.

I wait for an answer that never comes.

"What is your stance on, say, a guy like me who kills the way I do?" He breaks the silence.  
"I don't think it's right to take a life."  
"Ever?" His eyebrows raise incredulously.  
I don't like the way this conversation is going. I feel like I'm being... coerced.  
"There are some circumstances… Like self defense-"  
"Self defense? Really? So if a security guard came at me with his baton and a mean look in his eye, I'd have every right to retaliate as I see fit?" He interjects.

I scratch the back of my neck in frustration, knowing how my answer was going to sound.  
In truth I was just aggravated that I was struggling to disagree with him.  
"That would be different."  
"Why? Because I'm a prisoner, I have no basic human rights anymore?"  
I stare at him, unwilling to answer. A smirk creeps onto his face.

"Stop it." I hiss. He grins.  
"Stop what?" _Making me see your point!_ I want to yell at him.  
" Trivializing the pain you've caused so many Gotham families."  
"People die, Harley. What difference does the 'how' make?"

"The _'when'_ makes a difference. All of those policemen had children who will now be fatherless." I retaliate coolly.  
"Psh. They were cops, if they didn't want to get taken out prematurely, they should have chosen a different profession. Besides, _I_ grew up without a father, and I turned out just fine!" He remarks sardonically with a nonchalant shrug.

I feel a pang of sadness in my chest. Once again I find myself at a loss for words.  
Is he serious? Did he really grow up without a father? It would explain a lot…

But why would he tell me? He wouldn't... He's making it up.

… Or is he? Something about the way he said it rang so true.

"I _like_ this!" He exclaims abruptly, waggling an index finger in the air jubilantly and eyeing me as though I was doing something innately mischievous.  
"You don't think there's anything you can do to 'help' me, yet _here you are_." The last three words were said deliberately slowly, as though some epic conclusion had been reached.  
"Are your… _superiors_ aware of your opinion?"

"Dr. Stone was aware of my in reluctance to take the case, yes."  
"You're a very skilled liar, Doc."  
"As are you, Jack." I counter.  
He chuckles.

"Still, I did enjoy that remark. Shows how desperate Stone must be; throwing in psychiatrists against their will…"  
"You've turned everyone who's had your case inside out… in one way or another, James. I think it's fair to say you've made him _very_ desperate."

"But you're not here to fix me, Doc? You're not going to be my knight in shining armor?" His face is intently serious. Mocking.  
"You can't fix someone who doesn't believe they are broken, Jack." His façade drops and he laughs; a light-hearted sound.

I've been intrigued by The Joker since I first saw footage of him on GCN.  
But one thing I was certain of; The Joker could not be 'cured'.  
I don't want to be his therapist to 'heal' him; I'm simply fascinated by him.

And that scared me.

Silence falls. I find myself having to pry my eyes from staring at the contour of his collar bones through his white Arkham T-shirt. My gaze instead wanders to the barred window then back to Jack, who is trailing the back of his thumb along the indentations of the scars in his cheek as he watches me; a subconscious action.

"What happened to you, Jack?" My voice is a sympathetic whisper, I can't help the pity that is likely ebbing onto my face. His eyes return to mine, bemusement evident at my forward questioning.  
"What made you this way?" Still whispering.

He stares at me before pointedly smacking his lips in theatrical boredom. He rolls his eyes as he sighs.  
"Mmm that's debatable. You shouldn't think about it like that, Harley. I just _am_. I merely allowed myself to see what others refused to."  
"Oh..."  
"It would be like me asking what made _you_ the way you are." He reasons.  
"And what way is that?" I bristle slightly.  
"I think you know, so why don't _you_ tell _me_, hmm? Enlighten me as to who Harley Quinn _really_ is? 'Cause I'm not buying _this_." He inclines his head towards my suit before resting his chin in his palm thoughtfully.  
"Harley _Quinzel_." I correct dryly.

I clear my throat pointedly. "Okay then, a new question; what were you before," I try to think of a sensible question, "your recent escapades?" He chortles.  
"My occupation?"  
I nod.  
"I was an engineer."

"Really? Mechanical or civil?" Again I wish I hadn't been too proud to bring a notepad in.  
"Both. But mechanical was my favorite."  
"Did you enjoy it?"  
"Well, ya see, I always liked being able to take things apart and understand the way they fit together. But then I realized that my _real_ interest was people and figuring out how _they_ fit together." Jack leers.

His fists jump forward, chains rattling loudly against the metal desk.  
It was the smallest of movements but still managed to make me jump out of my seat and stumble backwards a few meters towards the door.

His bawls of laughter recede to snickers as he raises his chains and jangles them at me, showing they're still intact.  
"I suppose you thought that was funny."  
"They don't call me The Joker for nothing!" I glare at him as I take my seat.

"You're fun. You know that?" He points at me with one long finger.  
"I -" I pause, what am I supposed to say to that? "Thank you."

"Do you fear pain, Harley? Or death, for the matter?" His head tilts to the side curiously. I consider his question for a moment, studying my hands.  
"I fear both, actually." Jack bends forward in his chair, the chains clanging again as he leans across the steel table. I subconsciously lean back, keeping the same distance.  
"Really?"  
"Really."  
"That's interesting."  
"Why is that interesting? Most people do…"  
"True." Is all the answer he provides. He nods his head, not taking his eyes off mine. I peel my eyes away and stare at the metal desk instead.

"Are you ever going to apologize, Harley?" Jack queries abruptly, his head snaps upright and his expression becomes stern.  
"What?"  
"Apologize?" He barks once more.  
"F-for what?"  
"For keeping me waiting this morning." His voice is so scathing, it has me completely taken aback.  
"For being late?" I feel my eyebrows knot together in confusion at the abrupt timing of his questioning. He nods, suddenly serious.

"Oh... Uh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to keep you waiting-"  
"It better not happen again." He smiles sweetly. I stare blankly at his bared teeth, which have become progressively whiter over his stay at Arkham.

Is he for real? I'm his psychiatrist, I'm the one who's supposed to dictate what he's doing!

"Are... are you threatening me?" My voice is pitifully small; not the assertive/outraged tone I was aiming for.  
"Why on earth would I want to threaten _you_, my dear Harley?" His voice is eerily sedate.

When had this conversation stopped being so jovial?! His black eyes bore into mine and leave me feeling uneasy. Unsafe. But at the same time, that little narcissistic voice is telling me _you're different. Look how much he's divulged to you; how much he __likes__ you!_

"I really am sorry, Jack." I try, leaning forwards in my chair; inexplicably eager for his forgiveness.  
He is still smiling calmly, eyes remaining cold. My hands fidget as my gaze darts nervously around the desk, feeling a strangely overpowering urge to appease him; to make things better again.

I was only ten minutes late... Surely that's not late enough to elicit that strong of a reaction?  
Although, I suppose he is couped up in his cell all day. In fact, this is the only other human interaction he gets, apart from the guard escorts. I feel another pang of sadness, and guilt.

I look him in the eyes again. "I understand how uncouth it was of me to keep you waiting, Jack. Really, I do. It won't happen again, honestly." I'm practically grovelling now, the need for his forgiveness apparent.  
"I know it won't, pumpkin." This time when he smiles, it reaches his eyes. I am flooded with relief.

What the hell was that?! Talk about a mood swing!

My hands are noticeably shaking from the shock of his sudden harshness and my overreaction of him being mad at me.  
"Naw, did I frighten you, sweet pea?" His smile is unnerving again and I find myself leaning back in my chair once more. I try to regain a bit more composure before answering.  
"Of course not, James. You'll have to do better than that to scare me off." A weak smile graces my face.  
I manage to elicit another somewhat sinister laugh from Jack. The hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end.

"Mmm. I'll have to remember that next time." His eyes seem to peer straight through mine and all witty banter ceases to form in my brain.  
The guard could not have picked a better time to knock at the door and enter.  
"Session's up, ma'am. Sorry I didn't get a chance to check up on you before, I figured 'cause you were late and all..." he trails off.  
"No, no, that's fine Greg." I plaster the false, carefree smile to my face and stand up, turning towards Jack.

"I'll see you next Thursday." I farewell after clearing my throat to steady my voice.  
"9 o'clock sharp!" He sings at me as I clumsily shuffle backwards towards the exit.

His smile is still off-putting, like there's some big joke he knows that I don't.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts after I leave the room.  
This time, I head straight to Stone's office.


	4. Chapter 4

"Is half an hour enough time?" Stone's tone is disapproving as we stroll along the corridors together.  
"It's plenty, trust me. I don't think I could last a full hour with him…" I trail off as Stone's forehead creases with concern. "No, no, it's not _that_ bad! I just think short and sweet is more effective."

"But you have a full hour with both Tetch _and_ Crane? Not to mention an hour and a half for Zsarsz."  
"They're not The Joker." He stares at a patch on the floor for a moment then inclines his head to the side in agreement.  
"Duly noted. Look, I'm not fussed with you taking a half hour off, I'm just worried you have… reservations about your sessions. Has anything happened?" Stone wasn't the only staff member who found it exceedingly astonishing that The Joker had apparently taken a liking to me as his therapist.  
"No, no, nothing like that. Actually, he's been nothing but well behaved." This seems to put Stone's qualms at ease and he no longer pressed the matter.

The next few sessions with Jack went very much the same as the first; he'd try to probe into my personal life and opinions, and I'd try to deflect.

But he never ceased to surprise me with his responses. Take, for example, my querying of how he obtained a school bus for his havoc-wreaking purposes.

After seeing the face I made at his horrendous 'joke' about massacring schoolchildren, he'd revealed:

"Only joking, I actually like little kiddies. You know, have a soft spot for them." He'd shrugged casually.  
"Really? Wouldn't have picked you for it… Why's that?" Somehow I didn't think that the usual reason people liked kids would apply to him. The image of Jack holding a small child entered my mind. It seemed odd.  
"Well they're all insane aren't they? They have no concept of right or wrong, yet each of them is thought to be considerably cute. Why, every _bizarre_ thing they come up with is simply _adorable_." He'd explained, hands dashing around animatedly.

"I suppose…"  
"To see them is to see myself; running around tearing up the town, all the while being absolutely adored." He'd elaborated.  
"Do you think you are childlike?" _I_ certainly thought he was childlike, especially when he didn't get his own way.  
"I think I'm adorable?" He bats his eyelashes and I couldn't help but giggle like an idiot.

"Jack," I began after the humor had dissipated. "I don't think you believe you're insane."

He nods in agreement. "Sanity is relative. Most things are. I think _they're_ all insane. And I'm simply _free_."

Occasionally he'd say something he knew would make me uncomfortable, just to watch me squirm:

"You ever watch someone die, Harls?" He'd asked abruptly in our eighth session. I was struggling to catch up with his erratic chain of topics.  
"… No." The memory of him bluntly asking Ainslee if she'd ever been raped came to mind. I shift uncomfortably.  
"Mmm didn't think so. Not to worry, you'll get your chance." He'd declared, as if it were a fact. It had sounded somewhat threatening, though whom he was threatening, I wasn't sure.  
"Are you… what do you mean?"  
"Oh Harley, ever so touchy!" Jack tsked, waggling his pointer finger at me.  
"Well I'm sorry that I don't find the topic of death humerous, Jack."  
He chuckled as if I'd made a joke.  
"Well you can't spell slaughter without laughter!"  
Perhaps if it had been presented in a different topic, I'd have laughed too.

On this particular day, it is our fifteenth session and I'm looking forward to seeing him as usual; excited to see what intriguing viewpoints he'll come up with. The Joker might be twisted, but he is charming. Or maybe he's charming because he's so twisted? In any case, it's hard not to be intrigued by him.

I even brought along a notepad and pen, deciding it was ridiculous that I had to run back to my office to jot down notes after each session and it was time to swallow my pride.

However, my happiness quickly disappears once I enter our room.  
He is sporting a gruesome black eye. And the amount it upsets me is troubling.

"What happened?!" I gasp.  
Jack ignores my question, instead quirking his eyebrows in mock incredulity as he notes the pen and notepad in my hands.

"Well, well, aren't we a keen bean today, Doc!" He exclaims caustically.  
"Jack, your face…"

"Beautiful, ain't it?" He grins, motioning to his face. The smile doesn't reach his eyes, which remain solemn. As he flutters his fingers across his face, I note that his hands are also battered.

He looks drained… deflated. A husk of his usual bouncy self.

"Who did th… You didn't do that to yourself, did you?"

I'd been told about The Joker's tendency of self mutilation.  
Most of the time he did it just to piss off the guards as it meant a highly annoying trip to the hospital wing, wherein they had to section him off from the other patients and search the room with a fine toothed comb to ensure there was nothing point he could get his hands on.  
I imagine that for Jack, it meant a comfy bed and endless amusement.

"Oh _this_." He presses at the purple flesh, which bleeds into a sickly yellow green at the edges, with his pummeled fingers. "This was a gift from those lovely guards."

"What?! _Guards_ did this to you?!" The disgust is evident in my voice.  
Jack chuckles grimly. "Take it easy, Harley, it's a little game we have going. Don't be so surprised. This is just part of my routine here at Arky." He states simply, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear as he shrugs.

"That's - that's just sick. I'll speak to Dr. Stone about it straight after this session." I have half a mind to do it right now, but first I want to cheer Jack up a little; get that sparkle back into his eye.

"Mmm. That's what all the quacks say." He inspects his fingernails. "No offense." He adds of the term 'quack', glancing up at me earnestly.

"I'll talk to him, James. I promise."  
"You promise?" His voice is so small and childlike I just want to reach across the desk and squeeze him!  
"Yep, those guards leave you purple and blue, I'll see to it they get the pink slip."  
"Sounds like my kind of rainbow!" A small smile graces his lips and I start to feel better. He extends his hand. "Shake on it?"  
There it is again, that incessant urge to please him; to prove myself.

I eye his nimble fingers dubiously. They don't _look_ threatening. Long and slender; quite delicate in their shape, but broad in structure.

I don't know what is more unsettling; that I want to touch him to appease him, or that I want to touch him to satisfy my own curiosity.

... And what's the worst that can happen? _He grabs you, you yell, in come the guards and you're out. Nothing major._

I lean across the metal desk, extending my hand slightly, palm out.  
His hand makes contact with mine and it is gentle; a light caress of his fingertips along the flesh of my palm. It then engulfs my own, thumb slotting beside mine.

His hand is warm. Very warm. Absent-mindedly, I wonder if he's running a fever or if he is always this hot.  
Our hands rise and fall as we 'shake'. His eyes are liquid ore and they pour into mine. I can feel them swimming in my own; connecting us somehow. I couldn't break this gaze even if I wanted to.

When he lets go, my hand feels strangely cold in the wake of his.

Then, he is reaching upwards, towards my face, with one coy hand – the other hand following suit to allow for the chain. His eyes are still locked on mine, hypnotizing me with their severity.  
I find myself leaning into his outstretched palm, yearning for that peculiar warmth.

And it is the stupidest thing I have done yet.

He grabs two fistfuls of my hair on either side of my face; wrenching me across the table as he stands - hunching over so that there's enough slack in the chain running from his ankle shackles to hand cuffs. My knees smack painfully against the edge of the metal desk.  
Jack flips me onto my back and hooks the chain around my throat, dragging me across the surface by my neck.

I give a strangled gasp, then the palm of his hand is slapped over my mouth before I can scream for help.

His other hand encircles my throat, hoisting my face up as high as the restrictive chains will allow him to. I can taste the bitterness of the hospital-grade asylum soap from his hand across my mouth. The smell of it filling my nose and stinging my eyes.

Jack's breath is in my ear and his hip bone is digging into my back.

My fingers grip feebly at the wrist of the hand almost crushing my jugular. Indistinctly, I can hear out a strained, high pitched whining and realize it's coming from me, from high in my throat. It is the sound of sheer panic.

"Shh, shh,_ shh_." I can feel his smile against my cheek, no doubt amused by my pathetic attempts to free myself. "Caaaaalm down, Harley. You're going to hurt yourself. Shh, just _relaaax_."

My heart is hammering away in my chest, it feels as if I'm being punched repeatedly in the ribcage. I struggle against his hand at my throat, ignoring his instruction for me to be calm.

"_Harleen_." His voice is suddenly low and harsh, spoken through gritted teeth. I freeze at the warning and unwillingly release the tension in my muscles, sinking back against his torso.

"Thaaat's it. Gooood_ girl_." His grip on my neck eases. My legs are still splayed awkwardly across the metal desk and there is a rip up the right side of my dark gray, fitted pencil skirt. I watch my left kneecap as a small line of blood trickles from the fresh cut.

"Why do you try so desperately to hide your absorption in me, Harley? Sometimes I just wanna slap that serious expression off of your face, Doc. Would you like that?" He leers down at me and I give an embarrassingly girly little whimper as his eye comes into my peripheral vision. His face looks even more frightening from this angle. "Hmm? Are you _trying _to get a reaction from me?" I try to shake my head against the palm covering my mouth.

His hand leaves my neck and returns with something in it.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see the ballpoint pen that had been dragged across the desk beneath me, now hovering an inch away from my face.  
"You scream, you lose an eye. Capisce?" He warns. I nod stiffly, gripping the sides of the desk instead of his wrist. His hand finally lifts from my mouth. I let out a shaky breath then run my tongue across my front teeth, feeling where the flesh of my lip had bashed against them.

"I see you for what you really are, Harley; one sick little puppy." He whispers into my tendrils. His free hand is wandering across my ribs. "You're twisted: a misshapen piece trying to fit itself in with all the straight cuts." The last two words are hissed into my ear.

I can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound like a defensive childish retort._ Am not! You are!_

"You don't know it yet - maybe you've got a bi_t_ of an inkling; maybe you've got a touch of an idea that you're just not quite _right_ - but you don't reeeaaally _know_ it. Not yet." I make a small noise of disdain, which he ignores.  
"But I'll show you. You'll see how pointless your attempts to tessellate are..." He's muttering to himself now. Jack's hand is still exploring my body, caressing every inch of my torso.

I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe I got myself into this position. _You fucking idiot Harleen._

"You're a _loner_." He continues forcefully. "Yeah, I can tell. I can _see_ it. Now, I'm guessing a gal like yourself should make friends easily, so it must be by _choice_ that you spend all your life here. Perhaps it's because you feel more comfortable surrounded by the, uh, the _freaks_ in this joint, hmm?" He nods encouragingly.

"Could that be it?" He urges. I let in a sharp intake of breath as his free hand runs down my hip. "Yeah?"

Jack bends to inhale deeply and very deliberately at my hair. I stiffen as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  
The hand holding the pen slides over my collar bone and skims across my breast - down to where my silky blouse had risen; revealing the strip of my skin above my skirt. Goosebumps flourish across my whole body at his touch. He traces my bare flesh with his thumb and I tense, my insides feel like they are dissolving.

Now both his hands are at my hips; fingers wide and clutching at me possessively, kneading at my flesh as if he can't quite feel enough of it at once. Jack's breathing is heavy in my ear.

The fingers of his right hand sneak up my blouse, raising the material as they go; revealing my stomach that is noticeably quivering in nervousness. The fingertips of his left hand, still holding the pen, skim beneath the band of my pencil skirt. I reflexively lash out with my own hands as his dares to creep lower.

His free hand shoots into my hair in retaliation, the chains swinging and clanging together with the fast movement. Jack's fingers tear lines through scalp and force my head to tilt backwards at an awkward angle against his shoulder. I give a strangled cry through clenched teeth at the sudden pain.  
"I haven't been allowed to touch a woman's skin in _months_, Harley. Are you really so selfish as to prohibit me this one kindness?"

The hand holding the pen rises to my throat again and begins to constrict. I still instinctively.  
"Why are you being so _cruel_, Harley?" Jack whispers into my ear through gritted teeth. He is hunching over me, making me curl in on myself.

"Jack," I rasp against his choking grip. "Stop!"  
"Mmm I dunno, Harls. What have ya done for me lately?" He asks calmly. Jack doesn't seem to be exhausting himself in the slightest as he easily subdues my struggling against his hands.  
"Please-" I squeak with watery eyes. His eyes roll into the back of his head then flash back to mine with burning intensity.  
"I _hate_ that word."

His fierce grasp doesn't waver for what seems like hours as he stares down at my contorting face with sick fascination. His fist in my hair is so painful and my lungs are burning.  
I squeeze my eyes shut in pain. My shoes slip around helplessly on the stainless steel tabletop. Black starts spotting my vision and my extremities begin tingling.

Just as suddenly as it had all occurred, Jack's hands had left my body.  
It takes me a while to realize I am now bereft of his hold.

I stay where I am for a short while, leaning against his chest and shaking uncontrollably as I gasp down painful breaths through my mangled windpipes.

The sound of the pen clattering to the ground works to pull me out of my stupor.

I retract from him, sliding back over onto my side of the desk and collapsing onto the floor. I scamper backwards until there is half the room between us and curl up against the wall behind me, visibly shaking as I put a hand to my throat to feel the extent of damage.

The Joker is grinning, highly amused at my pitiful display.

For the first time, I see what everyone else sees. I see a deranged psychopath standing before me.

"Aww did I scare little Harley?" The Joker mocks.

Only when my breathing has leveled out and my hands have reduced in their shaking, do I cease my cowering and draw myself up to my full height. Even as he stands a few meters away, I still have to look up to meet his gaze. The tall bastard.  
I smooth my hair back and pull down my shirt _and _skirt which he had raised to an obscene height, eliciting another smirk from him.

Taking a moment to steady myself, I declare in the lowest, most threatening voice I can muster:  
"Listen to _me_, James." I say his name like it's a disgusting profanity. "If you EVER lay a hand on me again, if you even look at me the wrong way, I'll make sure you're so heavily sedated that the rest of your stay in Arkham will consist of a nurse wiping the drool from your chin."  
He raises his eyebrows sardonically and his mouth scrunches as he stifles his grin.

I turn on my heel and stalk towards the door, feeling tears of humiliation forming.

"Oh? And what are you going to tell them, hmm?" He calls. "That you willingly reached across the desk to touch the chained madman?" He roars with laughter from behind me.  
I keep walking, knowing that if I turned around he'd see the tears rolling down my cheeks and my 'I'm tougher than you thought' façade would be ruined.

"You were _juuuust_ starting to impress me, Harls!" Jack taunts as I slam the door shut behind me.

I try to pretend that last call didn't affect me as much as it does.

"Back to his cell." I hiss at Greg in the corridor, who evidently hadn't heard any of the scuffle. _Jesus Christ how thick are these stupid walls!_

I hate him, I wish I had have punched him right where he'd already been punched.  
I want to punch _myself_ because I'd put common sense aside for my stupid, illogical enthrallment.

I _wanted_ to touch him. I _wanted_ to know what his skin felt like.

I _wanted_ him to respect me, in the sick way I knew he would.

What he said to me had rang so horrifyingly true. He'd managed to uncover and prey on my most closeted anxieties.

I'm in too deep. I'm in way too deep and I've only had fifteen sessions with him! _Hey, that's longer than anyone else has lasted!_ I suppose it wouldn't be THAT gutless of me to throw in the towel… It's what's to be expected, right? _Right_.

So why do I find the idea so unappealing?  
Because I'd be doing what people expect me to and I hate doing that… Yes, that's it.

_It couldn't possibly be because you've actually been immensely enjoying your time with the most interesting - not to mention strangely attractive - man you'll ever meet?_ Shut up, logic. Nobody asked you.

I thought I could do this. I thought I could handle him. I thought I could handle myself _with_ him. But obviously not.

What the _hell_ had I been thinking?! I'm no different than any of his other therapists. The man's a fucking psychopath with them and he's a fucking psychopath with me, I was an idiot to think he'd be anything but.

Now enough is enough, a line has been crossed. I'm done with him.

Author's Note:  
Reviews welcomed! :D


	5. Chapter 5

I sit at my desk, gazing idly at the reflection in my compact mirror. The chafed, purple rings around my neck had finally healed and I no longer stooped to covering them up with makeup. Of course, most of my co-workers were already briefed on the incident, but it made me feel better about my stupidity for allowing the occurrence to happen.

It had been three weeks without seeing The Joker. The first session I'd missed, I hadn't even notified the orderlies to not take Joker to our room. Childish, I know, not to mention selfish on account of the guards' time being wasted - but I wanted to piss Jack off.  
I was told (by a rather terse guard) that the Joker had sat in our therapy room for twenty minutes until the guards had rang head office to see if /i was coming in.

But I couldn't deny how much I missed our sessions. I'd only had fifteen sessions with him, only been seeing him twice a week for eight weeks, but I found those times were fast becoming the highlights of my week.

Even my weekly appointments with Jervis Tetch, or 'The Hatter' as he so fondly calls himself, were becoming mundane compared to my visits with J.  
A deluded kidnapper who'd forced teenager girls to roleplay as Alice, from Alice in Wonderland, with his mind controlling devices, conversations rarely fell short of being what any normal person would describe as positively nerve racking. However, they were'nt _enough_.

I no longer cared for normal conversation with the people I'd once loved to have it with, either. I didn't find it stimulating any more. I found their responses mediocre. Trivial. Mundane.

Everything seemed so… _dull_.

Whenever I'd talk to someone I found myself thinking about how Jack would answer. I'd think about how he'd mock their trite remarks and falsities. The inflections he'd place upon his words. The jerky movements he'd make as he elaborated.

I find that more and more often I'd catch myself thinking about him and worse still, smiling like an idiot or chuckling at odd times when recalling humorous things he's said.

Then I'd remember his choking of me and the smiles and chuckles become bitter. But not towards him, oddly enough.

I'm disgusted in _myself_. I missed him. And had myself talking down his actions.

_He could have done worse. So, much worse. Plus, he let you go with barely any damage done! And really, it was you who'd leaned across to him_.

I'm also disgusted that I still find him attractive. Who the hell finds their strangler attractive?!

Stone had overreacted, moving Jack into a small, totally isolated cell on a different floor as punishment.  
I'd thought it a tad harsh... Then I remembered The Joker's treatment of _me_ had been a tad harsh.

A noise at the door pulls me out of my brooding. A playful rapping that I assume is the nurse I had coffee with earlier (the guards and my colleagues always have the same measured two-knock tap). She'd said she would drop by sometime this afternoon to return the newspaper I leant her to read on her lunch break. But this is later than I expected... she must be a dedicated nurse to stay here until after hours.

I stroll past my desk and unlock, then open the door.

The blood drains from my face as I realize who is standing - remarkably unrestrained - in front of me, adorned in his orange Arkham jumpsuit. There's no denying that the red-brown stains across his chest and the sleeves of the jumpsuit are that of blood.

_Oh my God, he's like something out of a fucking Tim Burton movie!_

"Evening, Harls!" Jack greets with a wicked smile. Forcefully, he pushes the door the rest of the way open, clapping a hand over my mouth until he's jostled me clear of the doorway. He kicks the door shut behind him, which automatically locks.

I'm too petrified to do anything other than allow him to drive me backwards into my desk.  
What is it with this guy and his deer-caught-in-the-headlights effect on people?!

He turns and begins prowling around my office as if he owns the place, inspecting my personal belongings with interest. With him closer to the exit than I, I dare not make a noise or try to run for it. I take this opportunity of partial freedom to hedge around my desk, retreating behind it – putting a physical barrier between the two of us.

"Y-you should leave, now, Jack. Guards are coming, Stone just called and said guards w-were coming to my office immediately to escort me off the grounds..." Even as the words tumble from my mouth, I know he won't buy it.

He turns towards me, a frown etched onto his face.  
"I can't _stand_ liars, Harley." Oh shit, he looks even madder - and had called my weak attempt at a bluff.  
"No they're really-"  
"What did I JUST say?!" His voice is deep. Very deep. It unnerves me.  
"Okay, okay - you're right… I'm sorry. I-I'm... You just scared me a little!" A lot, actually. I'm visibly shaking and my stomach feels as though it has dissolved.

He makes a low, long whistle. "Naughty, naughty. Why, you've gone and hurt my feelings, Harlsie."  
"I'm – I'm really sorry, J-" Oh God, could I sound any more pathetic? _Keep it together, Harleen!_  
"Why'd ya feel the need to go and say that to silly ole me anyway? Are we not _pals_, Harls? Do you think you _need_ a pair of guards here now?" He cocks his head to the side, eyeing me with a predatory stare.

_Oh my god he's going to disembowel you._ I shake my head in response. _  
_

"No? Are you saying you _don't_ think you need a pair of guards here?" His head tilts the opposite direction as his eyes bore into mine. He is playing with me. Toying with me like a cat to a mouse.

I swallow, trying to steady my voice. "I – I hope not. What are you doing here, Jack?" I try to keep my voice light and airy; to sound like I'm pleasantly surprised to see him.

"I want something." He answers simply, turning his head at an awkward angle in order to crack his neck. My stare flickers from his face to the exit, then back again.

He begins stalking towards me and panic gets the better of me as I find myself scrambling in my desk draw for my letter opener – the only weapon-like object in my office.

The look of utmost fury enters his eyes before Jack lunges across the table, reaching for the knife in my hands. I duck and weave out of his grasp, scurrying around to the side of the desk. I swipe the blade through the air clumsily, but forcefully, as he comes towards me again.

It sinks halfway into the meaty area of The Joker's shoulder and I'm almost too stunned to remember to withdraw the blade.

It barely slows him down. He let's out a small yell, but it is surprised and amused; shaking with laughter – the sort of noise you make when a puppy bites at the socks on your feet.

He advances at me again and I stumble backwards away from him, shocked that he isn't affected in the least by the wound which would have arrested the average man, shocked that I had actually done that.  
Suddenly, there is a hard surface behind my back and I realize I've backed myself into the bookshelf at the wall. My chest is heaving, heartbeat loud in my ears as I watch the man approaching me with terror.

It finally dawns on me that there is still a weapon in my grasp. My hands are numb and the bloody letter opener shakes uncontrollably as I raise it in warning – but a strong hand lashes out with lightning speed to engulf my wrists, wrenching them backwards painfully. The knife tip is now at my neck, Jack's hand clamped around my own.

His free hand latches onto my shirt collar, tugging me upwards and back; ramming me into the shelves. I yell in pain and he slams his head into mine, cutting the cry short.

My head spins from his dizzying headbutt, but I'm dimly aware that I'm being raised a second time.

Jack thumps my front into the wall, slamming my face against the plaster, his other hand pinning my arm down behind my back. I kick backwards, hoping to make contact with his groin. I fail, and he instead crushes my body against the wall with his.

My shoulder is burning as he wrenches it at an awkward angle behind my back. I can't help the pathetic whine that escapes me.

"Uh, uh, uh. Shh. None of that."  
"Jack, please-,"  
"Mmm, and definitely none of _that_." He jerks my shoulder even higher, somehow it manages to remain in its socket.  
"Please – ah, you're hurting me!"  
"Oh, am I?" Joker whispers into my ear. He shifts his weight, grabbing my arm and flinging me 180 degrees around him and into the wall again. My head and torso smash into the unforgiving surface.

I slump onto the floor on my side and the room goes pleasantly dark for a few seconds before returning with all its painful stimuli. I grasp numbly at the wall, attempting to find something to clutch onto.

Nausea sets in from the repeated knocks to my head, saliva pooling in my mouth as I fight the urge to throw up.

Vaguely, I recall that the knife is no longer in my hand.  
I tilt my head upwards to see the tall figure of Jack slowly crouching down in front of me – or maybe it just seems slow to me because there is a slight delay in my brain.

His eyes light up wickedly and flash briefly over to the opposite corner of the room, where the letter opener rests a few meters away. His face returns to mine with a sinister smile.

A challenge.

Without a second thought, I push upwards from my arms, ignoring the throbbing pain in my shoulder. Propelling myself onto my hands and knees, I bustle towards the weapon. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins now, allowing me to push through the pain in my head.

All of a sudden I find myself plummeting towards the ground as my legs are forcibly straightened out behind me by a pair of strong hands around my ankles.  
My arms don't have enough time to break the fall.

I'm sliding backwards; the rough carpet floor painfully burning my elbows and partially-exposed stomach. My fingernails blaze as I tear at the floor in a futile attempt to slow myself down.

Suddenly I'm whirled onto my back; all the air escaping my lungs as my body makes contact with the hard floor.

A few decent kicks are made by my bare feet before they're weighed down by his heavy body as he climbs on top of me. He snatches up my thrashing hands easily with one of his and pins them above my head. I'm very glad I chose to wear pants today, otherwise his knee would be jammed between my bare thighs.

My scream for help is interrupted by a sharp pain in my chin as his fist collides with my jaw line in a fierce right hook. Patches of black swim in my vision. A calloused palm then fully silences my mouth. _He punched you. He just punched you right in the face!_

"Shh, shh, shh." He croons as I struggle against him.

Warm, salty blood is slowly filling my mouth from a split lip. A series of muffled spluttering sounds erupt from me as it ebbs down my throat. _I'm drowning!_ I start to panic again, whipping around, desperate for air.

Jack watches my anguish for a moment with a look of intrigue. His dark hair falls across the left side of his face as he observes me struggling to breathe. I freeze as he slowly reaches somewhere to the right of me, producing the blood soaked letter opener.

"I tell you what, Harley, m'dear. If you promise not to scream, I'll take my hand off your mouth." I nod hastily against his palm and look up at him through tear-hazed eyes. "You promise not to make a noise?"  
My stifled whimper is enough of a response for him and his hand rises from my mouth.

I turn as much as his crushing weight allows and spit blood across the floor, coughing and spluttering as my airways are cleared. My arms are still captured and unable to reach my face – so the spittle and blood will just have to remain on my chin and neck.  
Jack smooths my hair away from my face, unperturbed by the flecks of saliva and gore that surely made it into it.

He stares at me for a moment; an uncomfortably long moment. I eye the knife warily.  
"Do you know how appealing you look right now, Harley?" Jack asks, reaching down to tug out the hair tie that had all but fallen from my hair. He tosses it away and grins down at me, eyes gleaming menacingly. "Mmm. Yes, I rather enjoy you like this."

_Jesus, could he be any more blatant?!_

"What do you want, Jack?" I rasp, finding it difficult to breath with him on top of me. My bottom lip sears from where it's been split open.

"Hmm..." He glances upright and bites his lip thoughtfully. "I waaaant… snacks between meals."  
"What?" That was possibly the last thing I expected him to say.  
"Snacks. Between meals. I don't get any."

"Oh." I manage to say. "Well… that's- that's easily arranged." I croak.  
"Wonderful!" I watch him cautiously, waiting.

"Oh and one more thing…" He leans forward so that his hot breath breezes over my face.

"Did you really think you could _waste my time_," he hisses the words into my face, "Without eliciting a response from me? Hmm?" The grip in my hair is so tight it feels like my scalp is going to part from my skull.

Vaguely, I can hear the sounds of alarms going off in the background. Looks like they've finally realised he's escaped.

"Time is all I have in here, Harley. What makes you think _you_ have the right to desecrate it by not showing up to our little date?"

Before I could respond there is white hot pain erupting from my left forearm.  
I scream in pain and he slaps me once. My head snaps to the side with the force. I blink at the wall in shock then return my bemused gaze to the Joker.

Jack beams, satisfied at my silence.

"Don't. Scream. Again." He warns slowly in a low whisper.

I gape at the arm he just stabbed; just below the crook of my elbow. It's seeping blood rapidly before my eyes. The cut is pretty deep, but not in a location where I'm viable to bleed to death.  
"A slice for a slice." Jack gestures towards the stab wound I gave him. He withdraws the blade from my arm and it takes every bit of control not to scream my lungs out. He smiles smugly at my restraint.

"Wasn't very nice of you, was it Harley. But I bet you won't be doing that again any time soon, hmm?"  
He presses a thumb into the cut and I cringe, feeling the tears roll down my cheek. He smirks.

_He's going to kill you, he's going to kill you, he's going to kill you._

"Harls, you look so nervous." It's almost a question, his tone hiking at the end of the sentence. His eyebrows knot together in mock concern. "Why is everyone so on edge tonight? The guards didn't so much as _smile_ when I bound their hands together with their own intestines. Talk about rude. I mean, I don't know why I even bother when my jokes are so unappreciated!"

I can only hope he is just joking about the guards' intestines. I can't help but glance down at his bloodstained jumpsuit. My mind is racing through all the possibilities, all the things that he is capable of doing to _me_ in this enclosed space. _Just hang in there, the guard must be on their way here by now!_

"But yanno, this didn't have to get messy, Doc." Jack states. He wipes the blade clean on the exposed area of my breast below my collar bone, slowly. The blood is cool now, and it elicits goosebumps across my flesh.

I feel the blade climb higher, caressing my collarbone; not sharp enough to do any harm without some force behind it, but still unnerving all the same.

"Stop this, please…" I beg, voice strained and gruff. He continues as if I've said nothing.  
"Though I can't say I'm not glad it did. I'm having _fun_. Are _you_ having fun, Harley? You seemed to enjoy it the last time I got a little _handsy_." He quirks an eyebrow curiously. The hand which had just assaulted my cut rises to my face again.

This time, I bite down on the flesh between thumb and forefinger as hard as I can, simultaneously jarring my knee upwards into his groin.

Jack reels to the side of me, more surprised than actually hurt, and I seize the opportunity of a head start, bolting (rather drunkenly) towards the door and yelling at the top of my lungs for any guards to hear.

Just as my fingers graze the doorknob, I'm wrenched back by a fist in my hair and thrown to the ground once more.

I'm too scared to even look in his direction, curling into the foetal position as he advances - hoping my submission will lessen his rage.

It doesn't.

Jack is _really_ angry at my little escape attempt this time. My head connects with the carpeted concrete floor a number of times by his hand. That, as well as the repeated punches to my face and jawline, has me struggling to even open my eyes.

When he stops, after God knows how long, my face feels hot; patches of it cooling as blood seeps down from my hairline, nose and lips.

My ears ring. I fall in and out of darkness. _Don't you pass out! _

There is pain and steady pressure around my throat as I'm lifted by my neck and shoved onto the desk in a sitting position. I still can't manage to open my eyes. I can't even breathe yet. My arms remain limp and useless by my side.

Jack wedges his legs between mine and taps my face impatiently - trying to wean me out of semi-consciousness.

My head droops forwards and now the grip around my neck is the only thing keeping me upright. He shifts his hold so that his fingers are no longer obstructing my airways as he holds me up.

I stare up at him, my eyes unable to focus properly. It makes his face appear even more sinister.  
"You went all proud and mighty on me after our last session, Doc. Had me thinking you'd cut me off for good."

My eyelids start to slide. Sleep would be so wonderful...  
The guards had to have called Stone by now, it won't be too much longer until they grow some balls and knock the door down. _Just hang in there a little longer. If he wanted you dead, you'd be dead already._

The Joker gives me an exasperated shake just as my eyes press to a close.  
My head slumps forwards onto the shoulder of the arm holding my neck. I can smell the metallic tang of my blood as it rubs onto his jumpsuit.

Jack hums, tilting my head back by a hand on my chin. "Hm. That's another thing about women I haven't decided if I love or hate; you're so _breakable_." He ponders aloud, thumb stroking my cheek. "How easy it would be to end you."

"Why don't you?" I manage to string together the words slowly through battered lips. I don't even know if I'm mocking him or legitimately asking a question.  
In all honesty, I'd deserve to be killed for being so stupid as to have opened my office door to him in the first place. I'd deserve it for thinking I could get away with ignoring The Joker.

When I open my eyes again, his hand is stroking the back of my head.  
"I'd say our dear friend David has already ordered the lovely security team to barge in here and ruin the romance, thanks to your little display of a hysteric female."

I can't help but shudder at the warm air he's breathing down my neck.  
Or maybe it's his knees rubbing against my most private area that has me shivering. I understand this is in no way a desirable circumstance, but my body is simply responding to the stimuli of a man (whom I unfortunately find attractive) breathing into my neck and grinding against me.  
Jack, noticing me quiver, runs his tongue along the edge of my ear. I hold my breath and my heartbeat accelerates. He, no doubt feeling the change in my pulse, smirks and he leers down at me. _My God, Harleen. You have to be deranged if this is doing it for you._

Suddenly, voices at the door. They sound so distant to my foggy mind, as if they're coming from far down the hall - but I know it must be coming from right outside my office because Jack is glaring at me with a lethal gaze.

"Answer them." He threatens in a growl. "Tell them I kill you if they open that door. I'm not done with you yet."

I try to comply but it seems my brain has stopped working. He grabs fistfuls of my collar and wrenches me closer to his bared teeth.  
My head dips backwards momentarily as I struggle to keep it upright. It feels as though it weighs 100 pounds.

"Don't unlock the door," I slur as loud as I can. "He'll kill me!" I finally manage and he smiles. It feels exhausting, my words are thick.

"Good girl." He praises in a purr. "Now where were we? Ah, yes…"  
His hands return to their former work around my neck but he's not choking - just a warning hold in case I try and yell. "I really didn't appreciate that little runaway display, Harley. Especially after you promised me you wouldn't scream. I thought patients were supposed to _trust_ their doctors, Doc." I say nothing and regard him through heavy eyes.

"Which reminds me…" He grasps my hair viciously once more before backhanding me across the face.

Pain radiates across my skull, surprisingly sharp and vivid in my lightheaded state.  
The room goes black for a moment, then the pull on my hair is even more painful as I fail to support my own weight.  
"Wanna run it by me again how you thought you could just cut me out of you life?"

I clutch at the lapels of his jumpsuit, unable to form words immediately.  
He waits for a response and eventually I manage to stammer: "I'm sorry-"

The Joker's shrill laugh fills the room. "Uh-huh, you're sorry _now_, because I'm a threat. But ya know what? I forgive you, Harley. How could I stay mad at that face! Especially in its current condition..." He trails off, leaning towards me.  
I shut my eyes, awaiting the pain that's surely about to come; imagining him biting half my face off as he did to Ainslee.

But there are no teeth nor hands attacking my face as I'd expected; just his lips on mine. And they are gentle. They are… nice. _You've officially lost it if you think being kissed by the man who nearly killed you is 'nice'._

The door slams open and a team of guards parade in, accompanied by David Stone himself.


	6. Chapter 6

"Get off her!" Stone storms forward.  
Jack shifts us so that he is standing behind me, arm wrapped across my torso beneath my breasts, his back now against the desk; my back now pressed into him.

My head tips backwards onto the Joker's shoulder and my eyes eventually focus on his lips, which are red with blood – my blood.  
"Just a taste!" He remarks over the shouts of the guards, licking his lips then grinning.  
I feel coolness at my neck: the letter opener that had sliced my arm. Again, not sharp enough to do any damage in its current position - but the threat was implied.  
Stone stops.

"What're ya gonna do, Davey? Time's a _tickin'_."

I let out a yell of pain as he tightens his grip around my damaged torso, deliberately getting a response out of me.

I'm left panting from his assault."She's lookin' a lil' worse for wear, eh Stone?" He then holds up my arm to display the vivid, deep red trail running down to my fingertips from the cut. Errant droplets scatter across the carpet as a result of the movement.

"Joker – please, stop this…" I whisper, careful not to use the name 'Jack' in case Stone hears.

My head rolls forward as a wave of vertigo hits me. Jack catches my neck, tilting the knife away, and jostles my head backwards to rest against his shoulder again.  
"Ah ta ta, careful now. Don't want to spoil the finale early, do we?" He whispers to me.

"Let her go. I've been looking for an opportunity to shoot your sorry ass from the start. Don't think I won't, Joker." Stone threatens, taking another authoritative step forward.

Jack chuckles, I can feel the vibrations ripple through his chest.  
"Funny, I've been looking for an opportunity to do _this _since the start." He drops the letter opener to the ground and runs a palm up the inside of my thigh as his wet tongue drags up the length of my face, collecting blood and tears in its wake.

I wince as his tongue runs over the bruises and cuts along my jaw and cheek. The guards look disgusted. I shiver all over and feel a clench below my belly.  
_What the fuck is wrong with you, Harleen?!_ I blame the concussion. The Joker snickers and I feel somewhat relieved that he is the only one who noticed my body's betrayal.

Stone is outraged. He suddenly snatches a gun off one of the guards. What the hell does he think he's doing - he can't shoot a patient! I open my mouth to protest but only let out a small groan as my lung screams at the push of breath.

Jack leans to sniff my hair.  
"Mmm. D'you know what she smells like, Davey?" He pauses for a response that doesn't come - Stone is trying his best not to be baited. "She smells like sex. No, really, she does! Isn't it funny how nearly killing someone can elicit that same sort of scent from them?"  
Jack smooths my hair back with the flat of his palm and nestles his face beside mine.

"You shut your fucking mouth." Stone spits in warning, gun still raised. Jack smirks.  
"Stone, don't!" I slur. I've got more sense than him and I'm brain damaged for God's sake! My arms hang, limp and useless, by my sides.  
"Oooh are you gonna take backchat like that, Davey? You are her superior, after all."

You can almost hear Stone's teeth grind together. Jack raises me off the ground a couple inches to more effectively shield himself; my ribs scream in protest at the sudden pressure and I gasp in pain. My breathing is quick and shallow.  
"I think she could do with a good spanking, don't you?" To emphasize his point, he runs his free hand over my hip and cups my butt.

"Joker, shut up-" I manage to mumble in caution, but he just slaps my behind once with an audible smack._ This is beyond humiliating!_

The look on Stone's face is absolutely seething.

"What d'ya say, Daaave? Shall I bend her over her desk right _now_?"

Stone loses it again; aiming the gun directly between Jack's eyes and clicking down the hammer. He begins to close the gap between he and us, gun raised and cocked and pointed at Jack's head. The Joker's hand flies up to my throat in retaliation and his already bone-crushing grip somehow tightens even more around my diaphragm. I cry out in a guttural wail at the mind-numbing pain – but the cry is cut short by the hand contracting around my battered neck. My feet dangle helplessly at his shins.  
"Shh, shh, shh. It's okay, we'll just have to save that for our next lesson in discipline, eh Harls?"

Jack quickly lets up on his chokehold - probably because he realizes Stone or the guards would risk hitting me by shooting him, if my life was _already_ in danger. My breath comes out in a shaky line. Jack purrs in appreciation, nuzzling his face into the area of flesh where my shoulder meets my neck.

"Am I making you jealous, Davey? Don't worry, you can have what's left of her once I'm done."

"Don't do this." I whisper in choppy breaths. "You don't have to do this." I peek back into the Joker's eyes - and cringe as he gives my ribs a squeeze in annoyance.

His gaze darts from my left eye to my right. Then, Jack suddenly grins. "Hmm okay, sweat pea. Since you _didn't _say please."

He grabs my face, thumb and forefinger digging into my cheeks, and swivels my mouth towards his. I muffle a cry in protest but the kiss doesn't last long and he soon drops me. And I mean literally _drops_ me. I collapse to the ground - lacking the mind to catch myself - and hit the back of my head yet again on the unforgiving floor.

I'm tempted to just lie there on my back forever - but I know I have to intervene somehow. I struggle greatly to turn myself onto my front at Jack's feet. Stone continues towards him, still aiming his gun at Jack's face.

"David!" I shout, shakily propping myself up on my elbows then erupting into a fit of coughs.

"Still a bit ticked off about those guards?" Joker chides, nodding in understanding.

Stone glares as his finger quivers over the trigger.  
"Stone… David, there's no reason to do that now. I'm safe now." I mumble, though it takes me longer than it should.

"No reason?! Harleen, _look_ at you."  
"You shoot him now, you go to jail." I manage to choke out.  
He still looks pissed off but the gun lowers a margin, no longer aimed at the Joker's head.

Abruptly, and at the most annoyingly untimely moment possible, I convulse and cough blood into my hand.  
Stone looks at my crimson hand then his murderous gaze locks back on the Joker, who grins and shrugs. The gun shakes in Stone's enraged grip.  
"Gee Harls, at least cover your mouth." Jack tisks in mock disgust.  
"Get her out of here." Stone orders of the guards.

"No!" I attempt to stand but crumble into a pathetic crawl. My vision is blotted with black spots once more. I lose my sense of balance and the room spins around me.

"Get her some medical assistance!" Stone bellows.  
Sounds are just muffled noises now, as if I'm under water. Someone is beside me now, scooping me off the ground. I want to yell at them to leave me there but I can't find the energy to do so.

"Jesus, Doc… What has he done to you?" An unfamiliar voice asks. It's all I can make out before my eyes close and everything goes black.

I can't remember much about what happened after that point.

I remember waking up in hospital:  
Everything was bright and hurt my eyes. It hurt to breath. It hurt to blink. They told me I had a broken nose and some cracked ribs which should heal in the right place without the need for surgery. They told me there were some fractures around the back of my skull and that my brain had been bruised but there weren't any signs of permanent damage. I was in pain. There was pity in everyone's eyes when they looked at me. They asked me if I remembered what had happened and told me I'd have to stay in the hospital for at least three months.

I remember catching sight of my face in the mirror of my hospital room bathroom:  
I looked like a domestic case. My entire face was a collage of purple, red and a sickly yellow-green. My nose had a white adhesive strip over it as if I'd had rhinoplasty. I had stitches in my hairline above my right eyebrow. My lips were swollen and a cut ran down the left side of my upper lip. Surrounding my left eye was a pool of deep blue bruising. I was told my left cheekbone and left jaw line had 'bone-bruising'. Apparently the Joker was right-handed.

I remember the dreams I had whilst under morphine:  
Though the images were warped and largely indecipherable in nature, one tall, broad figure with sad, dark eyes and a pained grin was always present. Ever looming over me.

I remember asking Stone what had happened to Jack when he'd come to check on me in the hospital:  
"Harley, do you remember anything that happened?" He looked tentative. And tired. All that stress couldn't have done him well. He runs a hand through his short, grey hair.  
"Yes… Up until I blacked out." Stone nods.  
"I'm surprised you managed to stay with it for so long." I stare out the window. It looks like a nice day outside this sterile hospital room. "You're tougher than you look, Quinzel."

"So, what happened after?" The moment of truth.  
"Nothing. We tazered him not long after you passed out, then put him back in solitary confinement. He was harmless as a lamb after you were taken out." My gaze returns to Stone's kind face.

"You didn't actually consider shooting him did you?" My voice is small, almost a whisper. Stone looks pointedly in the other direction, avoiding my gaze.

"David! He's a patient! He's in a mental asylum for Christ's sake." I cry.  
"Harleen, you can't seriously be defending him!" The incredulous tone could not be suppressed.

"No, but I at least can appreciate that he's in there for a reason; that he's like that for a reason. Nobody's born evil, Stone. Something made him that way. Something messed him up." _It's not his fault…_  
"Some people can't be helped, Harleen."

I know that. And the Joker knows that. And the Joker knows I know that he knows that. Stone however, does not. He can never find out that I have no delusions about the fact I can't change what Jack is.

* * *

Now it had been four months to the day since 'the incident' and I'm back at Arkham. I wanted to get back at him. I wanted him to be as humiliated and scared as he had made me. I'd spent 120 days fuming over the event which had embarrassed me in front of my colleagues – not to mention nearly killed me!

I don't acknowledge any of my colleagues as I trot brusquely down the corridors, there'll be time for that later. It wouldn't be entirely odd for people to see me visiting the particular patient I am heading to, but it still wouldn't be an enjoyable conversation dodging their questions.  
I march up to the cell I'm after and punch in my access code. The gears whir and shift and the door becomes ajar. I slip in and clamp the door shut behind me.  
Johnathon Crane is sitting placidly at the end of his cot, snug in his straitjacket.

"Doctor Quinzel, what a pleasure." He drawls without emotion, sadly his drab manner _isn't_ an effect of the medication he's currently on. Crane doesn't even look up to know it's me; his one and only visitor at Arkham.  
"Hello, Doctor Crane." I greet him with a pleasant tone. I don't usually dub him as doctor, but this time I think it will work in my favour. His head quirks a little bit at the title but he doesn't pass comment on my atypical usage.

"And what brings you to my humble abode?"  
"Jonathon… Would you be willing to do me a favour?" He finally turns his head towards mine and eyes me sceptically. Crane's eyes widen slightly as he takes in my slightly gaunt features – having not been able to eat properly, I'd lost a few pounds off my already trim frame – but again, he doesn't comment or ask questions about it.

His own face is littered with scars from the few circumstances in which he'd managed to scratch at his face whilst unrestrained. I stare directly into his bright blue eyes; perhaps the only set of eyes I've come across that match mine in colour. I always seem to note this as I peer at them, somewhat narcissistically. His unkempt, tousled hair resembles that of the straw man's he is nick-named after.

"Would this favour benefit me by any chance?" He sounds weary but I can tell I already have him intrigued enough to cooperate.  
"It'd give you something interesting to do?" I propose. "I don't think you'll want to turn this down once I tell you."  
"I'm listening." His body pivots towards mine slightly.  
"Alright, this is not for anyone else to know, as you can understand. I can supply you with everything you need..."


End file.
